


Spookshow Baby

by invisibledeity



Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Bondage, Debt, Kidnapping, M/M, Rob Zombie AU, Sex Drugs and Rock and Roll, Violence, Will be Explicit
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-02-26
Updated: 2019-07-04
Packaged: 2019-11-05 18:17:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 4
Words: 13,974
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17923889
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/invisibledeity/pseuds/invisibledeity
Summary: A high-octane rock and roll AU. Our dear old Trash Jesus Frankenstein rolling around the country in his lowrider with the music blaring and the ratings turned up, looking for amusement while a more sinister plan churns underfoot. Enter Prompto, a young rock god who soon finds himself on the run from the mysterious Dr. Satan and his laboratory of clones. He might be the exact distraction our down-and-out saviour needs, but be warned - it may not end the way either of them think.





	1. The Life And Times of a Teenage Rock God

**Author's Note:**

> I have been CRAVING a Rob Zombie AU for freaking ages. No holds barred >:)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Despite the chapter title, Prompto is in his twenties in this tale, as he is in the game.

 

The bar is hot and humid, and Prompto is five minutes away from going up on stage when the commotion starts. It comes in the form of shouts and thumps from the far corner, where the band posters and lewd advertisements are pinned haphazardly to the wall. Fights are a dime a dozen in this place, and really, this is the last thing he needs before a show. He’s all ready to down his drink, forget it, and put his game face on when a familiar voice catches his ear.

            ‘Look, just — _listen_ , man!’

            And he almost laughs, because _Noctis_ can’t be about to start a fight, can he? No fucking way.

            When he directs his gaze to the corner he sees only two people. One is definitely Noctis, he can tell by the fronds of black hair spiking up from the silhouette of the man cornering him.

            Speaking of, the stranger exudes this otherworldly aura like Prompto wouldn’t believe. It draws his entire attention, iron filament to a magnet. It’s hard to tell what his physique is like below the long, scruffy duster coat he wears, but he’s tall enough to tower over Noctis and block his escape from the fusty corner. All Prompto can see is the coat, and the frayed hair that lies somewhere between blood-red and black cascading over it — hair that could really do with a wash, if he studies it closely.

            Prompto’s best guess is Noctis spilled the guy’s drink or something. Stupid, yeah, but the kind of thing they’re gonna laugh over once the night’s through, no doubt.

            But he can’t leave his best friend. So he downs his drink, like he planned, and instead of heading to the stage he goes over to that dingy corner. He doesn’t know what else to do, and he’s lacking time, so he taps the man’s coat, somewhere around the shoulder, with the back of his hand.

            ‘Hey, buddy. My friend all right there?’

            The man turns, and now Prompto glimpses Noct’s face from behind his frame. He looks worried, but in a different way than Prompto has ever seen before. Something about it sets Prompto off, marks the situation as _wrong_ , but before he can gauge what kind of _wrong_ it is, the stranger replies.

            ‘Oh! Forgive me — he’s _your_ friend, is he?’

            The man swivels his eyes to Prompto and locks on. His irises are golden. His breath smells like whisky. His face is old and lined, but also young at the same time. It’s a confusing mix, and he’s not so much attractive as he is captivating. Prompto finds himself stumbling for words.

            ‘Uh — yeah, he’s… Y-yeah.’

            ‘Wonderful.’ The stranger all but smacks his lips together once he finishes overpronouncing that word. He really does look delighted, and again, this is odd. ‘Well, perhaps you can convince him to keep his promises?’

            And, without saying another word, the stranger stalks off towards the bar, leaving a trace of some sweet, heavy scent in the air behind him. Something like cinnamon and leather — an odd mix. Prompto stares after him. He shouldn’t stare so long, but … the man’s interesting. And other things he can’t articulate.

            Then he twitches back to reality and turns back to his friend.

            Noctis looks like he’s seen a ghost. Prompto prods him, says, ‘Noct, what was that about?’

            ‘Uh. Fuck, just—’ He shakes himself off, a shrug like it’s nothing, and Prompto knows this action well. It’s one Noct has rehearsed since school, for minor misdemeanours such as failing to turn his homework in on time, and he uses it every time he wants to avoid ‘fessing up to something.

            ‘Why you not telling?’

            ‘Just leave it, ‘kay?’

            Prompto pokes him. ‘Come _on,_ Noct!’

            ‘No!’

            Prompto gives up. He isn’t going to get much more out of him. So he leaves Noctis to his sulking, and heads to the stage. His amp and speakers are where they should be, stompbox wired up correctly, and he gives it a passing eye again before heading backstage to where the others are.

            The encounter with Noctis’s strange acquaintance settles still, and he tries to shove it out of his head.

            _Not the time, really not the time. You gotta focus._

His bandmates psych themselves up, pat him on the back, and get ready to go.

He fixes his blond spikes, sets his jaw, and struts on stage to drunken cheers. Lights flicker — the stage tech is shite but whatever, thats fine, it only helps the haphazard, punkish vibe — and he keeps his eyes dead open through the spotlight glare, signals some devil horns out to the crowd, then slings his bass guitar over his head. Strap in place, amp turned up, legs spread apart and in position and he’s ready, waiting for the drummer to give the go-ahead.

            And he’s off, moving from a strong drop-D to open A — a pulse of sound courses through him, making his sternum vibrate, and _god_ , it’s good.

            While the pair of them run the intro, thudding some raw, heavy beats through the room, the lead guitarist saunters on stage and grabs his instrument. He moves like a storm trooper, all unapologetic, efficient action, and the guitar slings over his head like a piece of machinery slotting into place. Then he joins in the winding-up intro, howling his chords out with a creeping overdrive, until the cacophony’s screaming for a break in the tension.

            It’s now that the singer comes out, and the crowd fucking hits the roof. She swings her long, grey hair behind her as she grabs the mic. Boots up to the thigh, clacking on the crappy vinyl stage as though those platform heels could punch a two-inch wide hole straight through. Eyelids laden with makeup, lips cherry-red, corset strung tight: she’s a bloodsucking angel and everyone here knows it.

            When Aranea starts singing, the strength of her voice punches a shockwave through the crowd and Prompto twangs hard on the bass to complement it.

            Crowd goes wild. He feels bliss. He sustains the note, drags it out until the song’s practically gagging for release, and then he lets it go. Aranea swishes her hair, flashes him a wry smile, and breaks into the second verse.

            His nerves are alive and thrumming. _Fuck_ , yes, this is perfect.

            The crowd ain’t bad tonight — a mix of greasers and rockers and yeah, even the odd truck driver stopped off in town overnight. Old timers and down-and-outs seeking to relive their own glory days, and of course a healthy smattering of students from the local community college, pretending like they know what they’re talking about when they nod their heads to Prompto playing a bass riff reminiscent of the Flaming Coeurls. They really shouldn’t be in here, but not like the barkeep is gonna refuse the extra income.

            But something else feels odd about tonight. He can’t figure it out.

            It ain’t exactly the prettiest bar in town, but he doubted that any local watering holes could contend for such a prize. So it ain’t pretty, it ain’t tame, and he’s no stranger to trouble — so why does he feel like something’s brewing under the surface like this?

            While he’s doing the long, ambling outro — easy work for his hands — he casts his eye out across the crowd. Sure enough, like he was expecting it, he spots the stranger who had accosted Noctis earlier. The man’s lounging at the back of the room, pretending like he isn’t watching but he is. Prompto’s played enough gigs to know.

            Prompto avoids his eye. Focusses on the next song instead.

           

Aranea’s a hit; yeah, they all play well, but she’s the star of the show, and they end up with more merch sold than they expected, mostly ‘cos every fucker in the joint wants to buy her a drink once it’s all wrapped up. She’s going to be busy signing things for a while.

            Prompto extricates himself from the throng, and ducks under a cooing tide of fans until he’s reached the ordinary bar patrons who are just here for a drink and some decent enough background music. He slips into line at the bar — his throat is parched.

            He grabs a beer for himself, and commandeers a small standing table for him and Noctis amid the heaving mass of bodies.

            Noctis compliments him on the show amid the raucous punk music that now screams from the jukebox. He nods, accepts the comment gracefully before swigging down some beer. He swivels his body against the table, taps his fingers to the music.

            ‘You still not gonna tell me what that was about earlier?’

            ‘Oh. Uh…’

            ‘C’mon, man! I don’t care who you pissed off — you know I got your back, right?’

            Noctis gives him this look, as if to say _not in this, you don’t._

And it annoys him to fuck, seeing that. He stares Noctis down, one hand gripping his beer so tight he can feel the cold seep into his bones.

            ‘It’s not… that simple…’ Noctis’s words comes in fragments, like he’s ripping them off some half-rehearsed sheet in his head.

            ‘So tell me.’ Prompto tries to relax his grip on the bottle. He’s so wired from the show, and so rubbed up the wrong way about this issue that this small feat is nearly impossible. He’s not exactly giving off welcoming vibes. But he still wants to help.

            ‘It’s…’ Noctis necks half his beer, and says nothing for about thirty seconds. Prompto taps his fingers, enjoys the music, and waits. ‘That guy, okay, I owed him. I, uh… still haven’t paid up.’

            ‘What? Like, how much?’

            ‘Uh… Well. He’s a family friend, sort of… So I guess I thought he’d be a bit more lenient than he was.’

            Prompto eyes him, as if the size of his pupils would be any clue in this dim light.

            ‘Noct. You taking anything?’

            Noctis shakes his head.

            ‘I’m not interested in that stuff. You know that. Look, this really isn’t the place to be talking about this…’

            He avoids Prompto’s gaze.

            The whole thing reeks of oddness, of matters that, even in this dingy backwater bar heavy with the flavours of liquor and leather and rock and roll, seem unsavoury.

            So Prompto lets the matter drop, and he prays he won’t see the eccentric stranger again that evening, for Noctis’s sake. He drinks up with Noctis, tries to cheer him up by talking about the show, about how Biggs messed up the chords on _Daemonoid Death Reaper_ , how Aranea nearly fell over on her own sky-high platformers, how he lost a pick to the beer-stained floor and fingerpicked the remainder of _Daggerquill_ , basically shredding his fingernails when it shifted into double time. Noctis manages to find his humour again through this, and the pair of them are laughing and conspiring as normal by the time their drinks are downed.

            Then Noctis announces he’s gotta go.

            Prompto nods.

            ‘It was… really cool of you to come,’ he says.

            ‘’Course,’ Noctis says, like this is no problem to him. Prompto knows it is. He knows Noctis has been super busy recently.

            So Prompto bats a smile, and knocks his shoulder playfully. ‘’Preciate it, buddy.’

            ‘Heh, any time.’

            And Noctis gives him something that’s somewhere between a clap on the back and a hug, and something about it feels desperate, so Prompto tells him to drop him a message when he’s home safe.

 

Aranea buys him a string of shots when he finds his way backstage. They packed up hours ago, so by all common standards they should be out in the bar enjoying their drinks like all the others, but this place doesn’t exactly have standards. Venue manager doesn’t care. So Aranea’s turned one of the practise speakers into a makeshift bar tray. There’s an array of nearly twenty shot glasses on it, lined up like they’re on death row.

            ‘Dude, they are _not_ all for me, are they?’

            Aranea barks. ‘Hah! No, kid, we’re gonna share. Hey, Wedge, you’re in too, all right?’

            ‘Right on, Lady A.’ The burly drummer stretches, and leans in, decides which shot will be his to murder. He picks a watermelon-green thing that Prompto suspects has a name on the variation of ‘cactuar’. Aranea picks the next one — it looks like liquid mercury.

            Prompto takes the next in line; a thick, dark concoction.

            Aranea counts to three: they down their poison, choke and gag, and emerge fresh-faced for more.

            ‘Holy fuck! What the hell is that?’ Prompto coughs far more than his friends, and Wedge eyes the remains of his glass and breaks into laughter.

            ‘Habanero and liquorice,’ Aranea says, her lips slicked with vodka, and _fuck_ , she’s trying not to laugh too.

            ‘Jeez — good thing I like spice,’ Prompto mutters, and he gets control of his coughing in time for the next round.

            ‘Your boyfriend not joining us?’

            Prompto blushes.

            ‘He, uh, had to head home.’

            ‘You haven’t even asked him out yet, have you?’

            Now Prompto groans.

            ‘Yeah, well… it’d be easier if we could hang out more. He’s been too busy recently.’

            ‘Still found time to make it to the show, though,’ Wedge says, with a knowing grin.

            He isn’t wrong.

            Biggs returns from his bathroom break, joins them for the next round, and they rack up the empty glasses until they have their own miniature Tower of Babylon, threatening to upend itself.

 

At the end of the night, Prompto gets his cut. Merch shares are lucrative tonight. It’s enough to keep him in the green as far as his rent’s concerned. Fucking insane, but yeah, they lucked out on a _thirsty_ crowd tonight.

            Last orders have already been put in, but the bar’s still fairly busy by the time Prompto decides to hit the road. He’s left his bass and amp in the storage rooms — Wedge has already offered to drive the lot back to their practise rooms, which, coincidentally, are in an annexe off the side of Wedge’s own house. One less thing to think about. Which is just as well, because his head is swimming and he doubts he could carry his own guitar case let alone an amplifier as well.

            He lilts as he walks outside, heading for the clearer air.

            Not five metres have passed since he left the establishment’s doors when a group of guys sort of _collide_ with him. He smells the same stale, smoky air coming off their skin and he knows they’ve come from the same bar as him.

            Truckers?

            No, not seasoned enough.

            Probably just twenty-something dropouts, looking for an easy target. Or an easy lay. He hasn’t yet figured them out enough to say. But it’s irritating him, and he has no interest in getting in their way. He tries to continue as normal.

            ‘Hey, boy,’ one of the men says. He can’t be that much older than him, but he’s twice as broad, and has muscles for days. Prompto doesn’t shirk away, because nothing would be a stronger sign that he’s intimidated than that.

            ‘Hey,’ he retorts, and it comes off as more than a little pissed.

            ‘Oi, don’t be such a downer.’

            Prompto gets the feeling they weren’t about to ask for his autograph. He shrugs himself away from the muscly guy, and comes into the personal space of a gangly, incredibly tall guy wearing a motorcycle jacket, emblazoned with some symbol that he thinks — in his intoxicated haze — says _Behemoth_. ‘Yeah, don’t leave, we’re only just started,’ the guy with the jacket says, and he blocks off Prompto’s escape route back to the bar.

            ‘You guys hear my set?’ he says, for lack of anything better to say.

            ‘Yeah, dude!’ This voice is new — a third person, to his right, dressed in a tracksuit and a t-shirt bearing the logo of a band Prompto liked.

            ‘What did ya think?’ Prompto can’t help but be curious. But he’s also thinking, maybe this will buy him some time. He’s still walking forwards, but his pace has slowed because of the group that’s now converged on him.

            The tracksuit-guy makes this ‘Hmph’ sound; it’s as though he’s indicating his approval of the music, while at the same time being more invested in something entirely different. He shares a glance with the other three.

            ‘He looks like the one, doesn’t he?’ Motor-jacket fucko says in that oily voice, and Musclehead nods.

            ‘Yeah. Check out that blond. Ain’t no mistaking it.’

            ‘Run a long way from your daddy’s home, aint’cha?’

            ‘What the fuck?’ Prompto starts to say, but he’s cut off by an arm pulling him into an ungracious grab that’s somewhere between a headlock and an embrace.

            Prompto’s remaining breath chokes out of him as his throat constricts. He does the only thing he can do in this situation. He kicks up a fuss, and hopes someone from back in the bar hears him, or that he can wriggle out of the guy’s grip and make a break for it.

            The men around him react violently to this. Musclehead knees him in the chest, tries to subdue him, while the others come in to control his flailing arms and legs. He’s fast, he’s agile, and their approach clearly isn’t working.

            Now Musclehead yells.

            ‘Grab his fucking hair and get in the car.’

            Prompto feels the tug before he registers the pain. He curses, he struggles again, but that’s a fruitless effort when they’ve got him at such a tender point. His hair feels like it’s about to rip out, and he bucks under their sway, trying to lessen the pain. He tries to analyse how, why, what the hell these guys could want him for… something as simple as an easy ride? Had they liked what they had seen up on that dingy stage? _Aw, fuck, no, no, no…_

            His stomach lurches and his skin’s burning as they force him onto his face on the tarmac and pull his hands behind him, securing them with zipties procured from somewhere. He tries to twist his wrists, to allow for more slack, in the vain hopes he can escape with such leeway later but they’re on to him. A knee in the back, pressed right between his shoulder blades, shocking him to a stop.

            He chokes out what’s left of his breath. The guys laugh, and they tighten the zipties until his skin pinches and he’s wincing. He thinks about the cold cash in his wallet, sandwiched between his thigh and the concrete, and he hopes and prays that they don’t notice.

            It’s clear he’s not going to win this battle. So he casts his attention elsewhere. Wider plan. They have to have one. Musclehead mentioned a car…

            He turns his head as best he can against the grit. Yeah — over a few metres away now, a plain dark vehicle, hardly noticeable against the shrubline silhouettes, save for the slight glint of the rear fender. Motor-jacket’s heading to it lights are flickering on. In the time Prompto’s made sense of this, he feels the knee on his back retract and something sharp tighten around his ankles. More zipties.

            ‘Fuck! Lemme the _fuck_ out!’

            His yells only elicit laughs.

            ‘What do you want?’ he tries, against the cacophony. Why can’t anyone from the bar hear him? Maybe he’d walked further than he thought. Hard to tell — everything was still so hazy.

            The laughing simmers down, and Musclehead hauls him to his feet. He doesn’t comply easily — ‘Just tell me what you want!’ — and he earns himself two knocks to the head. _Fuck_ , his assumptions about the guy’s strength had, if anything, been underestimated. He’s dizzier than before, and when the guy says something — he can’t hear exactly what, but it’s threatening enough — and motions again with his fist, he actually _flinches_ , and now he lets the guy drag him up and half-carry him to the car.

            ‘Please,’ he says, as if that will absolve him of whatever horror they have planned.

            Tracksuit smirks, and lights up a cigarette.

            Then Musclehead starts to beat him again. Blows hit his head, his side, the tender spots on the back of his legs. He buckles over, yells out. Asks him to _please, stop,_ to which Musclehead replies ‘Yeah, he told me you’d say that. You guys are all the same,’ and Prompto’s wondering what in all hell that could mean, while the rest of his senses seem to unravel around him.

            It’s weird, how he can hear a thudding bassline picking up strength in his periphery. It’s like parts of his own gig are replaying in realtime. He attempts to focus on the noise, as if focussing will make it more _real_ than any of this, but he starts to lose it as they bundle him into the boot of the car.

            Then, a bunched-up length of cloth fills his vision, and Prompto yells as they force it into his mouth. He finds his nose pinched closed by a finger and thumb, and soon he has no choice but to open his mouth to breathe. They fit the length of cloth in in its entirety, and a separate, fresh length secures its way over his mouth and round the back of his head. He’s gagged, and all-too-effectively. Only a muffled ‘Mmph!’ makes it out into the air.

            ‘He never said we had to hand you back in one piece,’ Musclehead says, and his grin’s highlighting the yellow of his teeth, and Prompto can feel his eyes widening and _god_ he must look pathetic, but then there’s the screeching of tyres — _other_ tyres — and that thudding music comes into sharp focus. Bam-bam-bam de doo gong de laga raga — he _knows_ that song…

            His three captors turn heads like pointer dogs on the hunt. There’s a flash of fear in their eyes though, and that’s weird.

            ‘I think that’s far enough.’

            The voice that cuts through when the car’s engine is turned off is measured, calm, and above all, _familiar_.

            Prompto hums into his gag when he realises. _It’s the man from earlier._ The one who had threatened Noctis.

‘Oh yeah? What’re you gonna do about it, motherfucker?’

            ‘Mother… fucker…’ The stranger fires those words back slowly, as if he’s trying to taste whatever poison they could hold and failing. ‘Oh, dear. You really don’t want to do this.’

            ‘Dude, we got a contract, we’re filling it.’ Motor-jacket fucko sounds pissed, but uncertain.

            ‘And I say you’re done here. Or did you not hear me the first time?’

            Prompto feels a thrill at the man’s tone. There’s something indescribably dangerous lurking under there, and it is the first thing over the course of the last five minutes that has given him _hope_. He breathes out heavily through his nose in anticipation, and waits.

            What he sees is a purple-black shade enveloping his surroundings, seeping up through the grill of the car and around his eyes, clouding his vision. Accompanying that there’s a chill that hits his bones, but it’s so strange, this is all just ephemeral sensation… And yet, the men around him are screaming.

            He hears Musclehead yell as if in pain, but he can’t see what could possibly be causing it, there’s not sound nor sight of anything untoward. Then that yell turns to anger, and there’s the sound of metal on metal. A flick-knife unsheathing? Something stabs forward, and there’s a sickly _puncturing_ sound. But there doesn’t seem to be as much of a reaction as Musclehead expects.

            ‘Hush, now,’ says the stranger, and the sound of flicking metal ends as quickly as it came. There’s the fresh noise of a hefty body being pushed to one side, then a new figure comes into view through the fog. Strong hands lift his tied and trussed body from the trunk of the car. A shadow fills most of his vision, and there’s frayed red wisps fringing the edges. A split-second later, he’s held close in the folds of an old duster coat. In the dull and distant glow of the street light, his saviour’s irises glow golden.

            Prompto stares up at his salvation, in awe and confusion, but he can’t do so for long. There’s movement behind him, one of the guys clambering to his feet again no doubt, and he hears the stranger mutter ‘Don’t make me kill you, it would make a terrible mess,’ and there’s this awful moment of tension that strikes through his gut. Then everything’s a flurry, and he’s taken to the stranger’s car — an open convertible — and shoved inside.

            As his saviour races to the driver’s seat, Prompto somehow finds it in his strength to glower. This old bastard, whoever-the- _fuck_ he is, has just dumped him unceremoniously in the passenger seat as if he were a sack of meat.

            ‘Hmpf!’ is all he can say.

            The blood-haired stranger smirks at him. It would normally be a disconcerting expression, but in light of his rescue, it’s as welcome as an angel’s embrace. Prompto widens his eyes, hoping the man will undo his gag, but there seems to be no time — the remaining gang members are regrouping from whatever had previously incapacitated them and they’re reaching into the back of the car for what Prompto can only presume are firearms.

            The stranger groans, as if this whole affair is a tiresome charade, and he turns the ignition, hammering his foot down on the gas while the music from his stereo tears into life with a ferocious roar. He drives off with the music blaring, leaving Prompto’s would-be kidnappers in the dust.


	2. Demon Speeding

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Out of the frying pan, into the fire...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was torn between calling this chapter Demon Speeding or Black Sunshine. Both awesome driving songs. _The wheels of his Mustang exploding on the highway like a slug from a .45_ ... and all that :p

 

There’s a certain hilarity in leaving your would-be kidnappers in the dust with ostentatiously loud music playing. Prompto would laugh, were he able.

            But as it is, the gag remains tight in his mouth.

            The car pulls out of the parking lot and swings onto the main road, and Prompto wriggles in his seat. His brain’s off on a tangent, fixated on how surprisingly comfortable the leather seat is, making such tiny, satisfying dips as it cushions his shifting body weight, and he guesses it makes sense to focus on those small details, because everything else is too crazy and happening way too fast. The car itself, now that’s an oddity. It’s a garish maroon colour, and while it’s not quite cool enough to be a Mustang, it’s definitely an old Ford of some kind. He scans the interior, looking for clues. A Mercury?

            His driver eases off the accelerator, and the inertia jerks him forward, drawing a ‘Mmph!’ of surprise from his corked mouth. He thinks he hears a soft laugh, but it’s hard to tell over the music. Speaking of: he wants to say ‘Dude, the hell, this song _kicks ass_ ’, because it does, it’s the latest track from _La Sexorcisto_ and Prompto’s had it on heavy rotation for the past month, and he’d never have expected something so freaking awesome to be their getaway soundtrack. But again, he can’t say any of this. He huffs through the tight fabric, and hopes the gag won’t rub the corners of his lips raw before the night is out.

            When they’ve been on the road for about a minute, Prompto realises they’re being followed. The would-be kidnappers are already up and at it; the dark van climbs ever closer in the rear-view mirror, and Prompto even thinks he can see some of the occupants half-leaning out of windows. Fuck, they better not have guns.

            Punctured air screams past his ears. They do have guns. Shots ping off the asphalt either side of them, and to a chorus of squealing rubber, they dance out of the firing line. They’re on the wrong side of the road for a hot second, then the car swerves back in. The firing stops; bastards are probably reloading.

            ‘How quick to forget,’ his saviour mutters, and it panics Prompto the way he slows the pace all of a sudden, lets the car drop into second gear. He glances at Prompto, and smiles. ‘What an effective painkiller it is, being young.’

            It feels like there’s a shit-ton more to his words.

            When the car turns, he’s unprepared for it. Hardly a surprising fact — after all, how many times has he ridden shotgun while trussed up like a turkey? He has no point of reference for this. His centre of gravity’s all skewed, and he is subjected to the whims of uneven asphalt as the tyres screech. _So this is what whiplash feels like,_ he thinks numbly as his head knocks against the door and the nerves in his neck buzz. He struggles for control; he doesn’t want to wind up swinging the other way and landing dead in the centre of this stranger’s lap. The car tears down the road back the way they came, and miraculously, he stays on his side of the vehicle. He catches a passing glimpse of their pursuers, staring back at him in dumb shock. Musclehead’s riding shotgun and is still fumbling with his reloading. He looks like thunder. Tracksuit Guy’s driving, and his face is sour as a spent lemon. Suckers hadn’t been expecting this.

            His rescuer puts the pedal to the metal and guns it down the road.

            ‘Oh, now _that’s_ more like it!’ he says, and his voice is half-stolen by the rush of wind but it sounds so wild and careless that Prompto gets caught up on the adrenaline high himself. This is fucking insane.

            The track comes to an end and the driver flips the CD out, inserts a new one that’s retrieved somewhat sloppily from a coat pocket. Seconds later, a fresh song starts up on the stereo and Prompto can’t fucking believe it — this is _his_ band. He could play that bass run in his sleep. And yeah, there’s Wedge coming in with the heavy kicks. Their most well-known track: _Daemonoid Death Reaper._ Hot damn, this guy’s grinning and tapping along on the steering wheel.

            There’s headlights in their rear view mirror again. Too far away to tell if it’s the gang or not, but whatever, it probably is. Prompto gives up squinting into the dark distance, and notices they’ve shot past the bar once again. No slowing down; his last hope for a return to normality flashes by in neon blues, firefly-yellows and a brief roar of background noise. Another few twists and turns and slip-roads, and the headlights tracking them are joined by more and more, until they become lost in a sea of pinpointed lights. Further into the town, now. And all the while, this stranger’s just tapping along to the music. He seems used to the chase, unfazed by being kept on his toes. This should make Prompto worry. But because it’s currently working in his favour, because this man’s far too quick for the twats in the van far behind them, Prompto doesn’t care.

            When the danger ebbs away, Prompto finds himself able to think more clearly. And he has a _lot_ of questions. Most of them revolve around whatever-the-fuck this guy did to those men back there. The weird purple light and the cries of pain…

            And there was a knife — shouldn’t this guy be bleeding? He was pretty sure he’d heard it go deep.

            He eyes the man’s front as best he can, but the duster coat gives little away.

            Why the hell has this guy saved him? Outta the kindness of his own heart?

            Prompto’s wary about that idea, and he sincerely hopes he hasn’t gotten himself into something worse.

 _As if I had much choice,_ he reminds himself.

            The car saunters up to a red light. The man turns to Prompto, smiles again, in such a strange, almost fond manner, and he reaches a hand out to Prompto’s gag, as if to pull it away from his mouth. Then he hesitates, lets his hand hover. A smirk, a barely-audible ‘Hmpf,’ and he reaches over for Prompto’s seatbelt instead. He leans in — for a moment he is uncomfortably close — and he pulls the thing forward smoothly, then sets to work buckling him in.

            He comes away leaving Prompto frustrated and flushed from the proximity. Then his attention snaps away. The light’s turned green.

            Prompto pleads with his eyes. It doesn’t work.

            ‘Mmph!’ he says, and the man just keeps smirking, and drives off.

            Has he just traded one bad situation for another? How did the song go… _Out of the frying pan, and into the fire._

 

By the time the car pulls up to a motel, Prompto’s realised his panic isn’t going to get him anywhere. He forces it down, and waits as the engine clicks off and the car wheezes to a stop. He stays still, which isn’t hard, and he waits for something to be said.

            But the man says nothing, and leaves him buckled in while he exits the car and heads to the motel’s reception. Presumably, he’s sorting a room.

            In this precious time away from watchful eyes, Prompto’s survival instinct kicks in again. It’s not just because of the stranger, but … he’s taking an awfully long time and, what if their pursuers finally catch up? He struggles and twists his tired body in an attempt to flee.

            It doesn’t work. He winds up with his vest riding up his stomach, held there by the lower part of the seatbelt digging in deep, just below his ribs. Now more skin’s showing, and his spine’s all twisted.

_Fuck._

The man returns, and his smile cracks into a wide grin when he sees the state Prompto’s in.

            ‘Really, now,’ he says, and he falls to soft tutting. Then he yanks the passenger door open, and sets to work extricating Prompto from the mess he’s got himself into.

            The motel parking lot is deserted; nobody’s there to notice Prompto being carried to the door of a random motel room and taken inside.

 

The room is cramped and small. It has two beds, which go nearly wall-to-wall, and it’s the closest one that Prompto gets laid down upon. With his ankles still zip-tied awkwardly, he loses his footing on the floor and almost falls backward onto the mattress. A strong hand steadies him, then retracts, leaving Prompto thinking _man, the warmth was nice._

            There are no lights on in the room, and what illumination they have comes from the lamppost outside. So, the figure before Prompto seems to dominate the room, dark but for the faint backlit halo around his frayed red hair. He seems, in this moment, almost angelic, but in a threatening way, like the angels who came to cast judgement upon errant believers.

            Soon, his saviour turns on a wall light and just watches him in the moments that follow, deciding what to do. His gaze flickers from Prompto’s gagged mouth, to his arms twisted behind him, to the ties round his ankles. A half-smile dances, vanishes just as quickly as it came.

            Prompto watches him back, thinking _what’re you waiting for, man?_ He doesn’t want to look _too_ pissed off, but neither does he want to fall to pleading again. That hadn’t worked in the car, and it wasn’t gonna work now. And besides, being too submissive might give the guy an opening to be a creep. So he watches, and waits, and soon the stalemate is broken. The man grunts, and leans in again, and removes the gag.

            Prompto sucks in air unhindered by crappy linen for the first time in hours.

            ‘My fucking EP,’ is the first thing out of his mouth.

            It’s a surprise to him as much as it is to the stranger.

            His cheeks turn hot as he realises just how goddamn weird it is, having that be the first thing he says to this guy. There were a million other things he could, no, _should_ say; _why’d you take me here, what did you do to those guys back there,_ and _who the hell are you_ being prime examples.

            And the man looks disgruntled, in a posh kind of way, like he’s just had a door closed in his face in a world where nobody would dream of doing such a thing to him. It’s an odd combination, taking into account his devil-may-care appearance. Before Prompto can establish whether he’s actually annoyed or just surprised, it passes swiftly into that same amusement he’d displayed back in the car, toying with the idea of removing the gag at the lights.

            ‘I mean,’ Prompto qualifies, ‘why’d you… why were you listening to it?’

            The man looks at him like this should be self-evident. ‘I liked what I heard at the show. So why not pick one up?’

            Prompto wonders whether he was one of those crazy sorts of fans, the type you definitely _didn’t_ want to end up alone with, tied and trussed on a bed in a seedy motel.

            But the man doesn’t seem to be exhibiting any sign of such intentions. Rather, he seems _interested_ by Prompto’s reaction. It’s as though he was a jackdaw and Prompto was some odd shiny bead he’d picked up in the trash, something he didn’t entirely understand but was immensely curious about. He watches Prompto stare off to the side, processing the fact that he has a new fan. After a while, Prompto stops staring and shifts in his bonds. The zip-ties are biting. The man’s eyes flicker.

            ‘Well, enough of my musical taste. You ought to be concerned,’ — _and oh, here it comes_ — ‘as it seems I just out-kidnapped your kidnappers.’ He pauses, and his eyes wander. ‘It would have been nice to know why they wanted you.’

            Prompto studies him, and tries to stop the mounting pressure in his chest. He thinks about saying a ton of shit, but he gets the feeling the man isn’t done talking.

            Yup, he called it. The man focusses on him again. ‘But,’ he says, as if it’s nothing more than a careless afterthought, ‘you and I have business.’

            Prompto’s heart sinks.

            ‘I’ll make it simple. Your friend, Noct,’ — and he drawls out the word _Noct_ — ‘left me in quite a difficult situation.’

            ‘Oh, yeah?’ Prompto shifts again. His wrists are raw.

            ‘As you no doubt are aware of by now, he still owes me. It’s far from insignificant.’

            Prompto wants to ask _money or drugs? Or something else altogether?_ But it would be foolish to give it away, the fact that he actually doesn’t know. He’s not sure why, maybe it was just too embarrassing, the idea that his best friend wouldn’t confide in him. And besides, if he pretends like he knows, maybe he’d learn a bit more. _Bluff, come on._

            He nods. This seems to be the response the man’s been waiting for.   

            ‘I’ve considered a number of ways to ensure that I get the remaining value. But before we get to the point, it occurs to me that I haven’t formally introduced myself.’

            Prompto waits. He already knows who _he_ is, after all.

            ‘Izunia,’ the man says, his voice layered thick with honey. ‘Ardyn Izunia.’ The way he pronounces it makes it apparent he’s done so many times before, he’s practised this like a stage actor, and Prompto sees it for what it is: theatrics.

            ‘Interesting name,’ he says, knowing full well it’s not his real name. At least, he’s willing to bet there’s a lot more to it than that.

            Ardyn does this half-shrug — he doesn’t seem to care what Prompto thinks of the name itself. But then he says the most curious thing. ‘You might hear many people call me a number of different things over the next few days, which is why I tell you now. You may call me Ardyn, and ignore the rest.’

            ‘Wait — what d’you mean, _over the next few days?’_

            Here, Ardyn sighs, and leans back against the door. It creaks horribly, and Prompto can tell it’s made of nothing more solid than fibreboard. The air is stale in here, thick enough to taste the build-up of years of cigarettes. Suddenly Prompto doesn’t want to hear the answer, he feels sick.

            ‘I need something as collateral,’ Ardyn says. His brilliant golden eyes gaze down, and he looks like someone who’s just won the lottery when he says, ‘I’m going to take you.’

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Only a few weeks until Episode Ardyn comes out, guys. I'm hyped for shenanigans. Give us back our kickass Ardyn, Square!! Instead of the shameful wet-blanket we saw in the anime :O


	3. I’m Your Boogieman

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A demon's work is never done - Ardyn has a long ways to go before he reaches his destination, and Prompto's only just starting to find out what kind of messy deal he's ended up entwined in.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *sings in zombie*  
> *never gonna stop meeeee, never gonna stop*

 

Prompto’s chest pounds. For a moment he feels lightheaded. Then he gets angry.

            ‘What the fuck,’ he says. Then, louder, ‘What the _fuck?’_

            Ardyn frowns.

            ‘Was I not clear? Hmm… do you understand what collateral is?’

            ‘Yeah, I fucking understand, I just — _dude!’_

            Ardyn doesn’t feed him with any more lines, he just watches him, lets him stew in his thoughts. He _wants_ him to say something, because then he’ll have something to react to. But no such joy. All he can do is fret in place, but even this feels ill-advised — the last thing he wants is to shift in his bonds too noticeably and have this man revel in his predicament. That, and the plastic biting into his wrists is feeling far too tight — the slightest movement, the wringing of wrists, only exacerbates the pain. If he keeps still, it’s bearable.

            ‘Well, fuck.’ He thinks about it all, then he thinks about it some more. _Well, fuck_ changes to _well, fine_ , and he says so, and apparently it was the right thing to do, because it makes Ardyn laugh.

            It’s so odd — everything about this guy’s behaviour is amiable, and would almost be likeable if not for the threat that lies present, constantly, beneath the surface. Perhaps the most threatening thing is that he doesn’t feel the need to _act_ threatening. He’s not shouting at Prompto or showing off his strength. If anything, he seems to feel the need to act the opposite.

            So, when he’s done laughing, he sits at the end of the bed, and looks across at Prompto like they’re two schoolyard friends gossiping after class.

            ‘Aren’t you worried what they’ll think when you don’t turn up for work tomorrow?’

            Who he means by _they,_ in this sentence, is pretty clear. But Prompto’s wondering what the hell Ardyn has to gain by asking him this. Is he just messing with him? Does he know he has a job or is he merely guessing?

            The question does something funny to Prompto’s brain. Suddenly he sees his colleagues roll their eyes, hears their unimpressed sighs, watches them punching in numbers on the old corded phone, subbing someone else in for his shift. Up until now he’s been feeling prickly, obstinate about his situation, but something about this pushes the pep straight out of him. He feels lost. And, because he feels lost, his shoulders sag and his voice goes down a notch when he replies.

            ‘Dude, I work in a gas station, they’re not gonna miss me.’

            Ardyn sizes him up.

            ‘You? The up-and-coming young rock god of the Spiders from Helltown—’

            ‘— _Aranea_ and the Spiders from Helltown,’ Prompto corrects. ‘And c’mon, man, nobody cares about the bassist.’

            ‘I think those bright young things ogling you in the crowd would disagree.’

            ‘Do you?’ Prompto’s guarded now. ‘Or was that just you?’

            Ardyn stops, as though he had never actually considered this before. ‘Hmm,’ he says, and Prompto’s not sure if he should be offended or not. Then, words that manage to chill him to the bone and make him blush at the same time. ‘Do you want me to?’

            Prompto freezes. Ardyn makes a sudden move for him, crossing only a few inches, but it makes Prompto flinch nonetheless. He holds pose, fingers outstretched, then relaxes and laughs aloud.

            ‘Oh, you’re so entertaining.’ He taps his fingers on his knees and hums, evidently enjoying himself. ‘Well. Let me know if you change your mind.’

            He stands up. He seems distracted by something outside. Whatever it is, he thinks about it for a second, then his attention snaps back.

            ‘Now. Would you like out?’

            Prompto doesn’t want to give him the satisfaction of saying _please_ or _thank you_. So he just nods.

            ‘So be it.’ Ardyn leans back in to him, and places a hand on his shoulder. He gives his shoulder a couple of pats, as if he’s comforting a puppy, before raking his way slowly down, to where Prompto’s hands are tied behind him. One knee presses into the bed, beside Prompto’s thigh, but Prompto’s barely focussed on that because of the frisson running up and down his left arm. It’s the first deliberate contact between them; the first touch that hasn’t been made out of necessity, or in the heat of the escape. It feels electric and important and Prompto can’t stop a small sound escaping his mouth. He’s somewhere between discomfort and anticipation.

            ‘Oh, hush.’ Ardyn lets his other hand join the first, reaching around behind Prompto, so close now his chin is practically nestled on Prompto’s shoulder, but he seems oblivious to the intimacy, his whole focus on those zip-tied wrists. He smooths the skin around the ties, noting where the plastic has chafed. ‘They were not kind, were they?’

            Prompto shrugs, as best he can without displacing his hands. ‘Eh. It doesn’t hurt much.’

            ‘You’re a terrible liar. But I appreciate your spark.’ Fingers stop stroking. One hand retracts, fishes in a coat pocket for something. ‘Hold still.’

            He doesn’t need to tell Prompto so, for at the first sensation of cold metal on his skin, he’s stopped moving, and is hardly so much as breathing.

            It feels like a scalpel.

            ‘And… freedom!’

            When his tease of a proclamation is quite finished, Ardyn replaces what turns out to be nothing more than a small pocket knife back into the folds of his coat, and for the first time, Prompto thinks it’s a bit weird that he still hasn’t taken the coat off. Whatever — at least he has his personal space back. He massages his wrists tenderly, watching Ardyn watch him.

            ‘Oh… I almost forgot about your legs…’ Barely a moment to spare, and the man’s down at his feet, knife back out. A grip of the ankles and a twist of the knife and there, he’s properly free now.

            He waits until Ardyn’s backed off before he rolls his ankles and frees up the stiffness in his legs a little. He places his legs shoulder width apart, enjoying the space it gives his groin. And, while he longs to spread them out a little more, he can’t fully relax in the presence of this man. He shuffles around on the lumpy mattress, then casts his eye back to Ardyn, hoping to high hell that he doesn’t look as wide-eyed and innocent as he fears he does.

            ‘So, uh… what happens now?’

            ‘Well, now. I’m normally one for letting the chips fall where they may, but…’ Ardyn looks off to the side, like he’s remembering a past conversation. ‘I’m expected. At the Spookshow International.’

            Those words are like magic. Prompto’s mouth falls open.

            ‘Ah, so you know of it?’

            ‘Dude, are you freaking kidding me? ‘Course I know it!’ Prompto checks himself; he’s becoming too excitable. ‘I’ve, uh, never been, though.’

            ‘Of course not. I’d be able to tell if you had.’

            The way in which he says this makes Prompto feel small. Prompto pouts, but it’s lost entirely on Ardyn, who’s back to looking out the window. Again, that distracted expression.

            Prompto listens out, but can’t hear a thing.

            And he’s back.

            ’It’s going to be fun,’ he muses, and it’s like he’s talking to himself.

            _Well, duh,_ Prompto wants to say, because it’s not every day you get the chance to go to the biggest rock and roll hole on the continent. Forget Burning Man — this show’s for the real freaks and fiends. A trek partway across the desert and you’d be there, only, Prompto had never had the means nor the time to make the trip. Not to mention, the place had a certain _reputation_ , so you’d want to be going with someone well seasoned to the game. He thinks of the stories he’s heard from folks back at the local watering holes, and his blood thrums in his veins. Who could be waiting for a man like Ardyn there?

            ‘Have _you_ been before?’

            It’s an innocent enough question, but Ardyn barks at it. ‘Me? Heh, heh. Me?’

            Prompto takes it as a _yes._

            When his mirth is through, Ardyn seems content to let the silence settle, and Prompto doesn’t like it. He doesn’t like how wooden he feels, and he doesn’t like the power imbalance either. He’s overcome by the urge to stand up and own some of the physical space around him, as if it will somehow put the two of them on even footing.

            ‘Mind if I stretch?’

            ‘Not at all.’

            So Prompto gets up, all cagey, and stretches his tired arms out. He rolls his shoulders, and stretches his legs. He’s pretty sure he’s too young to feel such a deep ache in his lower back. It’s incredibly tempting to move a little closer to the window, and peek out from behind the curtain, see what’s going on in the world outside, but he doesn’t want to anger his new captor. Not that this felt like your typical captive situation — the whole thing was still so very disarming.

            ‘So. Spookshow.’ He tasted the word on his tongue, hesitantly, as if it would sting. ‘That’s where you’re going now.’

            ‘Where _we’re_ going,’ Ardyn corrects him.

            Prompto raises an eyebrow. _Really?_

            ‘Come now, I’m no Scrooge. I hardly put my newly-acquired assets in a hole in the ground. And besides, you’re absolutely begging to go — I can see it in your eyes. Now, are you all done with your stretching?’

            ‘Um. Yes?’

            ‘Good.’ He stands up, presses his hands together, and for a second he seems almost biblical. That is, until his eyes turn dangerous. ‘I may not lock my assets away, but I do still need to take precautions. You can make this fun, or you can make this… how do you young people put it? Suck.’

            Prompto glares.

            ‘Do you have a cellphone on you?’

            ‘Nope.’ Prompto shakes his head, but Ardyn may as well have not asked the question, because yep, he’s checking him anyway. He frisks his hands over Prompto’s clothes, delving into pockets and patting him down from chest to midriff, from hips to the inside of his thighs. Prompto huffs. Ardyn’s hands are awfully warm, and his movements are far from unkind. But he ends up with only a stick of gum and a few disparate coins.

            ‘I told you I didn’t have my fucking phone on me,’ Prompto says when he’s finished. He thinks sourly about the place he’d last seen it — backstage at the venue, alongside Aranea’s handbag and — oh, _fuck_ , his wallet.

            ‘You’ll forgive me for not trusting you fully yet.’

            He pats his hair, as if Prompto’s his pet, some creature that needs to be rewarded for good behaviour. Prompto huffs again.

            Then his attention moves down to his throat. A finger traces across the leather collar there. It’s studded, black and silver, and it really completes Prompto’s stage look. But Prompto doesn’t like the way Ardyn’s looking at it. He holds his gaze, head tilted back like he wants to move away but not daring to, until Ardyn breaks the spell.

            ‘Your young punk fashion. It’s oh-so practical.’

            His fingers retract. He turns inward, eyes fluttering closed, lips moving as if chanting something under his breath. The air feels heavy, and something tugs at Prompto’s solar plexus. There’s shadows, spilling out of the cracks in the corners, filling the space between them with their wriggling and writhing.

            ‘What the shit,’ Prompto says, and it sounds kind of pathetic, but it’s an automatic reaction.

             Ardyn sighs softly, then plucks one tendril apart from the rest. It tosses and turns in the palm of his hand, and he whispers to it like it’s a pet.

            Then it thickens, and wriggles its way towards Prompto.

            He freezes. His hands twitch and he’s ready to throw the thing off. Not like he could; it’s way too fast. It wraps around his choker, looping one end around the buckle and fastening itself tight. The other end lashes itself to the bedpost furthest from the door.

            Prompto gasps, like he’s about to be sick. The alien presence around his neck is _so fucking weird._ He reaches hesitant fingers up to it, and feels it pulsing, breathing, _alive._ It reacts by squirming and tightening its grip. Yeah, he’s not removing that in a hurry.

            ‘You must be tired,’ Ardyn says, ‘so we’ll leave in the morning. Or afternoon. Hmm. Well. Whenever we’re ready.’ He makes for the door.

            ‘Wait, where are you—’

            ‘Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m off,’ he says, ‘for a drink.’

            ‘A _drink?_ It’s fucking one a.m., dude—’

            Ardyn ignores Prompto’s complaints, even when they turn to swearing, and he leaves with a smile. A teasing glimpse of the outside world, starry car park lights amid deep velvet night, then the door closes with a creak.

 

When he’s alone in the room — well, _alone_ is relative, if you consider the living tentacle-thing that keeps him shackled to the headboard — Prompto looks around properly.

            It’s easier to do so when Ardyn’s not there; something about the man draws even the most unwilling of attentions to him. Prompto wonders if it’s a simple, primal thing, if people just implicitly understand that it’s too dangerous to look elsewhere when he’s around.

            Now he looks at the walls properly, taking in the shoddy construction and the window fixtures. All shit he could probably break with a well-placed lampshade strike, if only he weren’t shackled to the bed by the — what even _is_ this thing anyway? Worm, leech, hellspawn? It doesn’t seem interested in hurting him, whatever it is. Might change its tune if he tries to wrestle it off his choker, though. Might wring his neck, and there, his panic returns. He struggles to control it, and when he eventually does, the sigh he breathes out is a full-body affair.

            Were there even any bars open at this time of night?

            He thinks about Aranea, about Biggs and Wedge, and whether they’re aware he’s missing. Did anyone else see the shit going down in the car park? Will they miss him tomorrow? Next band practice?

            He hadn’t been lying when he’d told Ardyn about his work. Doubt they’d care. Tons of people to fill the shifts he misses. At the gas station, he’s expendable. On the best of days with his band, he feels expendable, so it just blows his mind, thinking that right here and now, under the care of this trashy lunatic, he’s perhaps less expendable than he’s ever been in his life before.

            This makes him think about Noctis, and his heart pangs inside his chest. Awkward, because, if he hadn’t stepped in when Ardyn had confronted Noctis, perhaps Ardyn would not have recognised him later on in the car park, and perhaps he would be under a much different kind of confinement right now. Crueller, maybe, under the charge of that gang — although he had no way of knowing how _this_ would turn out. Maybe Ardyn would have ‘saved’ him anyway — maybe Noctis’s plight was just a lucky coincidence.

            He doesn’t like where his thoughts are leading him, so he pushes them down. What to do, what to do…

            The room’s small but not as small as he’d like: he’s been left with enough slack to reach the small windowless bathroom, but it’s not enough to reach the table, nor the door that leads out of here. The curtains remain closed over, and the room’s a little too dark for his liking. Wall light’s barely worth a damn. Maybe if he turns another light on, someone outside will notice.

            He reaches for the bedside light. Annoyingly, this is fixed down, so he can’t use it as a makeshift weapon. But he can turn it on, and this time the illumination is a lot brighter than the single dying wall light. Unfortunately, after a few minutes, he realises there’s going to be hardly anyone awake enough to notice from the outside.

            A brief moment of elation — _is there a landline in here? —_ is firmly quashed when he finds no evidence of any kind of cord along the wall. All the while, the tentacle attached to his neck flexes and thickens, like it knows what he’s looking for. He almost starts talking to it. But his search is fruitless, and the room is just as much a prison as it was before.

            _Well, fine._

            There’s nothing else much to do apart from take a piss and fall asleep.

 

Prompto wakes up to acid alcohol breath. Something scratchy at his ear. Then, a voice, deep and husky.

            ‘Wake up, sunshine. We need to go.’

            He lacks the presence of mind to parse the sentence properly. His first instinct is to jerk upright, and he does so, bashing straight into Ardyn’s face.

            A yell.

            ‘What the hell was that for?’ Despite asking, Ardyn slams a hand down over his mouth, and he has no time to utter anything in response. Ardyn’s too close now, and Prompto realises the scratching sensation from before was his stubble.

_Oh god, too close._

            His breath smells _real_ strong.

            ‘Fuck! How much did you drink?’

            And, moreover, where the hell did he _find_ anything to drink at this hour, short of robbing a joint?

            _God._ That’s probably exactly what he did.

            ‘It’s of no consequence. What matters is, we must leave _now.’_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Episode Ardyn was fun. Especially the bits where he got to be a badass and step on people again. Damn, he loves doing that.


	4. Trade In Your Guns For A Coffin

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When you're chased by a pack of wolves, you need superior firepower.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've been working on this chapter a while, but Kupocon got in the way. Love you all <33

 

Prompto is not impressed by the rude awakening. Everything that had happened since he left the club seemed so illusory, so dreamlike, and he’s upset to discover that, in fact, it had all been real. The fucking crazy tentacle thing still lies fastened around his neck, twitching and pulsing and doing its very best to freak him out.

            It’s early in the morning, too early for the sun to be up, and Prompto’s aching head tells him he shouldn’t be, either. But Ardyn is not in a mood for joking around. He gets him to his feet and jerks his head towards the door.

            Prompto’s still fixated on the tentacle.

            ‘Fuck, it’s fucking _real_ ,’ he says, and his throat croaks as he speaks, and he sounds pathetic.

            ‘Look, I know the supernatural is something that isn’t supposed to happen, but it _does_ happen.’ Ardyn makes as if to pat Prompto’s hair; an almost-touch that leaves Prompto’s mind in a whirl. ‘You’ve a fine head on those shoulders. Now use it, if you don’t want to end up dead.’

            The tendril uncurls itself from the headboard and winds its way through the air until it finds Ardyn’s wrist, affixing itself there like a leash. Ardyn barely pays attention to the control he’s been given; he ushers Prompto out the door by his shoulders as if he isn’t a prisoner, but a close friend.

            They are halfway across the motel parking lot when he stops.

            ‘Ah, that’s a shame,’ Ardyn mutters. ‘They’re here already.’

            With the sound of distant motors running, Prompto panics.

            _‘They?’_

No clarification comes, so he tries again. ‘Who are they?’

            Ardyn smiles.

            ‘I have no idea.’

            _Fuck,_ he’s enjoying this, isn’t he?

            He considers running, and wonders how far he would get before the tentacle pulls him back. But he doesn’t have much time to wonder, because whoever _they_ are, they’ve arrived. Neither he nor Ardyn would have had the time to reach the car, much less the motel exit.

            Something comes tearing out of the dusk, and it’s far bigger than the white kidnappers’ van he expected to see.

            A truck?

            It’s got some kind of logo painted along one side, something almost clinical in design and quite unlike the garish trucker paint more common around here. Red and gold and he can’t quite make it out. The truck sports an array of floodlights that glint in the dark like some manic UFO ready to beam them up.

            Prompto hears something — is that a howl?

            He flinches as the truck comes to an abrupt stop with a putter and a bang. For all its utilitarian appearance, it sounds like it hasn’t had a shred of love or care in years.

            The person in the passenger seat kicks open the door and jumps the metre’s gap down to the floor without effort. Piling out the back come a squadron of others, while the driver stays right where he is, keeping those blaring lights trained on Prompto’s small party.

            And there, the first guy, not sauntering but _trotting_ towards them, half soldier-like, half dog-like, and Prompto realises just how huge he is.

            In fact, all the people that exit the truck look like they’ve been given a surplus of steroids. They’re fucking _ripped_. And, if Prompto looks closely, he can see scars and stitches on their skin, or at least, what skin shows, because they’re mostly wearing leather. They look like commandos, but they’re clearly not affiliated with any military he knows of. They say nothing, but for the occasional grunt, and it’s so guttural, so animalistic, that he wonders if it’s just steroids and alpha-male posturing, or if something more supernatural is going on.

            Ardyn’s getting more excited by the minute. He walks out from the alcove, a lilt to his step, his hands in mock surrender. He says, theatrically, ‘All right, all right, so you’ve found me. And what will you do now?’ His voice is measured and clear, and on the _now_ it dips into such a low register, like the purr of an engine, that Prompto’s stomach lurches quite against his will.

            None of the men before them exhibit much of a reaction. Ardyn looks at the intruders. His eyes flicker from person to person, like he’s disappointed in them, and he says, ‘Now is where you congratulate yourselves! Good job, pat on the back, and all that. My, we’re a bit slow on the uptake today, aren’t we?’

            At first Prompto thinks Ardyn has gone mad. Then he remembers the way Ardyn had acted around the men from last night. The way he had attacked them, then sped the car off down the road like it was nothing more than a wild joyride — like it had been a normal occurrence for him.

            One thing was abundantly clear: Prompto had gotten himself mixed up with a man who expected trouble to follow him.

            As for the vibe he’s getting from the newcomers, he’s aware they are in an entirely different class from the lowlifes he ran into last night, and all he really wants to do is run. Ardyn’s not holding him down, it would be totally feasible, and with a bit of luck, the intruders would be so focussed on Ardyn that he’d get a decent head start.

            But he doesn’t.

            ‘Shut up,’ barks the man at the head of the party. ‘We ain’t looking for you.’

            The other commandos agree.

            ‘What do you mean, I’m not who you’re looking for?’ Ardyn, who is his best bet for safety right now, does not sound pleased. His voice deepens as he targets the leader of the leather-clad gang with a stony gaze.

            ‘Get outta here, Trash Jesus,’ the main guy says, and his voice is loaded with lead.

            ‘Trash who?’ one of the other guys shouts, and Prompto can’t help but agree, because what the _hell_ is he talking about?

            ‘C’mon man, don’t tell me you don’t recognise ol’ Jesus Frankenstein over there?’ Another guy, off to the side, all brawn and scorn and no tact whatsoever.

            The other man gapes.

            ‘No fucking way.’

            ‘He looks older than I thought,’ this other guy says, and Ardyn’s frown deepens.

            Main man, isn’t in the mood for games, claps his hands together and snarls. ‘Snap out of it. He’s not who we’re after.’

            Meanwhile, Ardyn’s pouting.

            ‘Interesting. You’re here for _him?’_ He points at Prompto and it’s almost insulting, and Prompto feels so very out of his depth. He wants to shrink behind Ardyn’s frame.

            The lead man snarls again. Steps forward.

            ‘Well,’ says Ardyn, and his voice lilts all lackadaisical, ‘if you fellows are anything like your dear friends from last night, I must warn you. You won’t get far. So — would you like to give it a go?’

            One of the guys lets out a howl, as if he thinks he’s a dog, and charges for them. Under the half-moonlight Prompto thinks he sees his form changing; sharpening, bulking out.

            _What are they, fucking werewolves?_

‘Run for the vehicle,’ Ardyn hisses to him, and without thinking, he obeys. The dark tendril around his neck still pulses and throbs but it does not inhibit his movement. For a moment all he can think about is _twenty metres, that’s all, I can make it to the car in time_. He hears the man attack, roaring, howling, something that sounds like claws tearing at thick and excessive layers of fabric. Ardyn’s stupid coat. He keeps running. But as he runs, he turns in time to see Ardyn’s riposte — a shard of dark energy, prickling with purple light at the edges, issuing from his outstretched hand and spearing the wolf man through.

            Blood pools on the pavement. Dark and rich. A heady smell that reminds Prompto of the refuse sacks out back of the gas station’s shitty little café.

            The second guy howls again, and Prompto starts to wonder, maybe he really is a werewolf.

            He’s got to be dreaming.

            ‘Do stop, you’re causing a scene!’

            The way Ardyn calls out seems designed to make them angrier, and now they’re baying for his blood. Literally baying — howling out to the sky like it’s an ancient god accepting their prayers, as if it could rain down vengeance upon their fallen companion.

            Prompto’s close enough to the car, but for some reason he stands in shock for many moments too long. He can’t help but watch the scene unfold, and his mind’s racing faster than he can catch up with it. Ardyn’s words from earlier, ringing in his head: _Look, I know the supernatural is something that isn’t supposed to happen, but it does happen._

            And they called him Jesus Frankenstein, what the fuck?

            Whatever all of it means, they don’t stand a chance against Ardyn.

            In a single moment, his captor, saviour, whatever-the-fuck-he-is, is embroiled in a massive fight, all shadows and fists flying. Prompto watches, and in a fair fight, they would not have stood a chance against him, but there’s so many that he does wonder.

            Ardyn decks another couple to the floor, and Prompto spots an opening. While their attackers are recuperating, there is enough time to make their escape.

            ‘Ardyn, we gotta go! Ardyn!’

            He seems instantly frustrated, like a child being called back indoors from the playground, and he huffs, and whirls toward the car. The only thing missing, Prompto thinks, is a petulant kick of the leg. Ardyn saunters into the car on the driver’s side and sighs, then closes the door.

            The daemonic tendril falls entirely slack around Prompto’s neck at this point. It’s an opportunity, a literal accession to freedom. But he’s no fool — he knows it’s either ride or die at this point and so he leaps into the car alongside Ardyn and shouts ‘Go, go, go!’

            A soft and satisfied smirk from his captor. Ardyn wastes no time. He kicks the vehicle into gear and speeds off.

            ‘Where to?’

            ‘Gun store.’

            ‘For… what, to fell those guys? We’re not coming _back_ , are we?’

            ‘Oh, heavens no!’ Ardyn clears his throat; the dust on the highway is thick. ‘We’ll simply wait for them to come to us again.’

            ‘Um. So. Guns, huh?’

            ‘Well, yes, _you’ll_ be needing some, I suppose. And a little extra firepower on my part can’t hurt.’

            Prompto thinks about the lancing shards of dark energy, and recoils a little in his seat.

            Ardyn catches his eye. ‘What, you don’t want to come? Would you rather stay here?’

            Prompto doesn’t argue after that.

            Behind them the men are shouting and barking and clambering back to their feet. They’re slow, dazed by what’s just happened, and it gives Ardyn plenty of opportunity to get a good head start.

            It’s too early in the morning. Over on the horizon, beyond a ridge of distant desert hills, the faint stripe of approaching dawn shows, an amber-pink glow amid the darkness. Prompto knows shops aren’t going to be open at this time, but somehow he doubts Ardyn’s going to find that a problem.

 

It’s not long before they swing off the dusty road into a mini mart parking lot. It’s desolate. Prompto eyes the billboards stating ‘Open 9 - 5’ with a sinking heart.

            ‘We could just keep driving,’ he suggests. ‘Try someplace else?’

            ‘Did you not see the logo on their truck?’

            Prompto stares at him, but elaboration does not come. He huffs, and Ardyn ignores him, taking the keys and leaving the car and striding off to the shop entrance. He hasn’t bothered to tie Prompto down and the dark tendril appears to have disintegrated into nothingness. Prompto looks all around him, gauges the distance of the fences and the road, and then decides to go after Ardyn. He knows he doesn’t stand a chance alone if those men catch up. Especially when —

            _Especially when they’re after you, not him._

            He catches up just as Ardyn hammers on the door. The glass shakes in its foundations, and somewhere up on the first floor, a light flickers on. Electric buzz hits the air as a circuit, somewhere, struggles to maintain power.

            After a while, a man appears, old and pissed, in a messy wifebeater and a pair of pants with honest-to-god suspenders strapped loose on his shoulders. He looks marinated in his own liquor. Prompto watches him with rapt curiosity as he comes up to the window, strikes up a cigarette. Stares at them.

            ‘Calm yer tits, sonny. It’s five in the bleedin’ morning. What you want?’

            Ardyn gives him a smile. ‘We need firepower. I’m afraid it’s rather urgent.’

            The old man peers at him. Long white hairs protrude from his nose, shifting and shuffling as he breathes in and out.

            ‘You look familiar.’

            ‘As do you, Cid.’

            Now the old punter’s face cracks into a grin. ‘Ey, Frankie! Now why didn’t I recognise you first time?’

            Ardyn starts to smile back, but now the old man’s going through some kind of internal odyssey, expression shifting as different emotions sweep through him. It’s not all good, and Prompto can see him deliberating, deciding on whether opening the door is a good move or not.

            At great length, he says, ‘Firepower, right?’

            ‘The very best you have.’

            ‘Nasty beasts to bring down?’

            ‘Oh, absolutely.’

            Cid gives him a piercing gaze, one that lasts a few seconds past socially-acceptable. His gaze shifts to Prompto — the first time he’s considered his presence at all since they showed up — and it’s like he wants to tell him something, but instead he shuffles off to the back of the shop.

            What feels like minutes pass. Prompto kids himself that he can hear the truck approaching in the distance.

            Ardyn groans, and Prompto hears him mutter _come on_ under his breath. His fingers start twitching, and that knot around Prompto’s solar plexus starts to unfurl. Whatever devil magic that is, it’s building, and he gets the sense that Cid doesn’t have much time left before he won’t have a shop entrance to speak of.

            There’s crashing and metallic thudding from the back of the store.

            Cid comes back into view, spits out his cigarette, and crushes it on his own shop floor. Making a point. He hits a button, opens up the narrow vestibule area, then kicks something forward; a canvas bag. Glint of metal and clunk of hefty material. Guns, and a fair selection, too.

            ‘Silver?’

            ‘Of course. You think I din’t hear them tearing down the highway earlier?’

            ‘Good man,’ Ardyn murmurs.

            ‘Damn varmints.’ He pauses. Then points somewhere to the east, further into the desert. ‘They came from past the ridge. If you’re caring to follow ‘em. Just,’ — Cid comes right up to the glass, and there’s that piercing gaze again  — ‘lead ‘em away from this old joint, if y’all don’t mind.’

            Ardyn nods.

            ‘You take care now, Frankie,’ Cid says, and Prompto’s still having trouble figuring out if Cid likes him or hates him. But it hardly matters. The old man shuffles back into the store proper, locks the inner doors, then lets them into the vestibule to grab the goods.

            When they’ve taken the bag, when Ardyn has tipped his hat, Cid shuffles off and doesn’t look back.

           

In the car once more, and Ardyn doesn’t even bother to check the goods.

            It’s when Prompto’s sitting in the passenger seat, bag sat heavy in his lap, that he realises.

            ‘Wait, did we not pay for these?’

            ‘Oh, he owes me,’ Ardyn says, not missing a beat.

            Prompto makes a derisory sound, because yeah, that figures _._ He unzips the canvas bag, rummages through it until he finds a gun that fits his grip, more or less. It’s a slim black and silver thing, barrel a little wider than the design would lead him to expect, and it’s weighty but comfortable.

            He tries to cock the gun. Ardyn laughs, and takes his foot off the accelerator before he really starts pressing down.

            ‘No, not like that. You ought to—’ He leans over, and for an uncomfortable moment his hands are too close, delving into the bag on Prompto’s lap and _moving_ around. It feels weird on his thighs, his skin’s prickling.

            Then Ardyn finds what he’s looking for. A small, rattling box that reads ‘.45 calibre’ on the side in small, blocky letters. ‘Give that here.’ He plucks the gun from Prompto’s hands, and loads it, watching Prompto watch him while he does so. Sliding the cartridges in, click and snap back, then miming how to hold it, how to pull the trigger.

            ‘Not so different from wielding an instrument,’ he says, and smiles.

            Prompto isn’t so sure. He reaches for the gun, and Ardyn gives it to him, but places a hand over his, softly, so he can tell him something. ‘Only one rule to remember.’

            Prompto stares back at him, aware he’s all wide-eyed, aware it’s too vulnerable. It feels almost like some strange mentor-apprentice shit. He says nothing, he just waits for Ardyn to say what he wants to. And Ardyn reads all this for what it is, because he cracks a wide smile. Then he says,

            ‘You fire at them, you enter into a contract. One whereby you’ve agreed that whoever comes out on top can do what they may to the other.’ That grin’s just growing wider. The air feels too clammy. ‘It’s a contract that needs no words. So you have to be absolutely certain, when you pull that trigger.’

            Prompto knows he’s gonna remember this.

            ‘You can, of course, use any of the guns you find in there. But I don’t have time to show you.’ He revs the car. Heads back to the turn-off.

            ‘So, um.’ Prompto points off to the right down the dusty road; not the direction they came from. Actually, what he does first is wave the fully-loaded gun in that direction, and this gets him a lazy slap on the shoulder from Ardyn. Reprimand? Humour? He’s not entirely sure. But instead of bringing it up, he points and says ‘We going that way?’

            ‘Oh, no, my boy. We’re going back to meet these bastards head-on.’

 

The venue of choice is not pre-ordained. It’s a drive-through movie theatre only a stone’s throw away from the gun store, which happens to be the exact distance Ardyn was able to drive before the werewolf gang caught up with them in that ridiculous monster truck.

            ‘Are they _actually_ werewolves?’ Prompto whispers, as they watch the (already bruised and battered) men get out of the vehicle.

            ‘Try not to worry about it,’ Ardyn says. Pat on the back, and he’s getting out the car, bringing a shotgun from the bag with him. Prompto follows, cagey, lurking a little behind Ardyn like that will offer him protection. They’re in the wide open; far to their right is the dilapidated movie screen, to the left is an abandoned popcorn stall, and all around, a low and pathetic chicken-wire fence. Their two vehicles are the only ones in the place, save for an old, rusted thing sitting in one corner. There are no lights save for those from the monster truck. Nobody else will be around to see who wins.

            _Try not to worry about it, my ass,_ Prompto thinks. Meanwhile, the men in front of them size up for the fight.

            ‘Bold of you, to attempt this again,’ Ardyn starts to say, but the wolf men are having none of it. They bay and howl and almost immediately race in. Shoulders heaving, muscles rippling, hair streaked back by the onrush of air. Not even speaking this time, no words distinguishable. First guy to reach Ardyn bares his teeth and leaps forward — his ears seem to lengthen, tufts of hair growing out and making his silhouette take on a freakish shape. Ardyn lets him come, slips to the side with supernatural grace, then strikes him with the back of his hand, not even bothering to use the shotgun. Shards of dark energy ripple out around his fingers, driving through the man’s arm, straight through the muscle like nails. The man howls, kicks out, catches Ardyn’s coat which only turns into shadow and dust. Then the coat tails are wrapping around his throat and he’s on his knees, grabbing at his bonds while his fingers twitch with the effort of moving muscle that’s been spiked through. Ardyn slams a boot down on his back, pushing him forward while he raises the shotgun and point-blank blows through his head. Howling disintegrates much like his brain matter does.

            The others hesitate, until rage overtakes them and then — everything is mayhem.

            Ardyn’s at the centre of it all, a roiling mass of black and purple energy, smoking in the dark desert night. Prompto kites around at the back, terrified out of his fucking mind, thumbing the grip of the gun, trying not to shake.

            He’s not sure he can actually pull the trigger, until one of the assailants comes right at him. Somehow the man — creature — has managed to circumvent Ardyn, leaving the others to the lash. He’s too fast, thundering down on the tarmac like a freight train. Prompto thinks he’s going to freeze like a deer in headlights, but he really doesn’t fucking want to die — _not here, not now, and how the fuck did it end up like this? —_ and so he finds himself drawing the gun up, aiming, and firing. It happens so fast he barely notices. A sound like a heavy brick hitting concrete, a sharp deep snap, and the guy’s kneecap bursts open. Prompto stares. It’s dark, but the blood is too fucking red, bright, almost orange, and he doesn’t expect that. He doesn’t expect it to spray like it does either, but it’s down on the tarmac like a fire hose, and he jerks his feet, as if it’s going to stain his boots from metres away. He doesn’t care about the mess — his boots are shitty and old — but he doesn’t want to be near the guy either.

            The strangest thing — aside from the curdling scream that sounds like death — is the fact that it doesn’t stop the man, only slows him down. He goes through this phase where he seems like he might pass out from the sheer shock of it, then something deeper and stronger than adrenaline kicks in, stiffening the hairs around his face and pricking his ears up, and he hops up straight on his one good leg, grimaces, then moves.

            Prompto stumbles back, readies the gun again, and shoots him in the shoulder. The same thing happens — stop, drop, shock, then the man’s ready for the fight again. He snarls and bares teeth, lunging forward, clamping down on Prompto’s wrist before Prompto even realises how close he is. Prompto screams and drops the gun, kicking out. Then he realises the guy isn’t trying to kill him, he’s dragging him off. Towards the vehicle.

            _Fuck._

His free hand scrabbles for the gun and he somehow picks it up, and this time, finally, he shoots straight. There’s the guy’s brains on the tarmac, and the echo of Ardyn’s words in his ear. He wishes he hadn’t said those things. Contract that needs no words. Whatever. Fuck.

            Fuck, the guy’s dead.

            His heart rate’s spiking and he glances over at Ardyn. Catches his eye. Ardyn grins, maniacal, sinister. Then he flips round and fells another guy in a single swipe.

            Prompto doesn’t hang back this time. He’s acutely aware the men want him alive and want to take him somewhere, and he knows they aren’t going to stop. If a _whatever-the-fuck Ardyn is,_ using those powers, can’t deter them, then he can’t imagine what will, outside of death. He rejoins the fight, hanging back but for a few well-placed gunshots.

            They kill them all.

            Afterwards, Prompto wishes he could shut out the uncomfortable moments, seeing Ardyn croon to his victims during their last dying breaths, hearing their bones shatter, noticing how bright, how bright the blood.

            In the aftermath, everything is still.

            Ardyn picks something up off the ground. It looks like a calling card. Some kind of logo on it; red, gold and white like the side of the truck.

            ‘What’s that?’

            ‘A mistake,’ he says, and he smiles, showing teeth.

            Prompto gets the horrible feeling they’re going to be tumbling further down this rabbit hole. Ardyn seems too _interested_ in this new turn of events, despite the fact he’s already told him what the plan is. Travel across the country, go to the Spookshow International, and get whatever the fuck it is he needs from Noctis during the process. Should be simple, but it won’t be, he knows that for sure. Plan seems like too generous a word, anyway, when it comes to him.

            Then it’s back to looking at the mess they’ve made and he finds himself shaking. Not like cops patrol this part of the county all that much, so he doesn’t really need to worry about that, but … this is not what he expected. It’s not what he saw himself doing half a day ago when he was prepping for the gig. Yeah, back then, when the biggest problem on his mind was the awkward gain settings on his Peavey amp.

            ‘Not a bad effort.’ Ardyn claps him on the shoulder — again, so soft, so firm. Then he moves away, off a few metres to examine the bullet wound on the nearest werewolf. ‘Oh,’ he sings to its prone, lifeless body, ‘I wonder how they made you.’

            For a moment, Prompto is all aflush. He managed to _please_ Ardyn. That spot on his shoulder feels warm.

            Then the moment dips into something gross and uncomfortable, and he glances sidelong at the open road. Nothing chasing them now. He sees his opportunity and runs.

            He makes it as far as the rusted-up popcorn stand before those fucking ropes of dark matter surround and ground him. Head hits the floor with a bony sound.

            Behind him, Ardyn’s footsteps fall, hard and measured. At the back of his neck; heat from breath. Words whispered, too close.

            ‘I wouldn’t try that again, if I were you.’

 

 


End file.
